


all the hands i've made

by vintaged



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: M/M, Post-Finale, surprise! it's gay, tldr: kallus keeps a diary
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-26
Updated: 2020-08-26
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:20:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26119441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vintaged/pseuds/vintaged
Summary: It is unimportant, he tells himself. Just a record. For old times’ sake.
Relationships: Alexsandr Kallus & Garazeb "Zeb" Orrelios, Alexsandr Kallus/Garazeb "Zeb" Orrelios, Kanan Jarrus/Hera Syndulla
Comments: 26
Kudos: 174





	all the hands i've made

**Author's Note:**

> thank you to whip, elle, alex and susan for all of their love and support. big big big hugs to susan esp, who beta'd this monster and also helped me figure out how to finish it.
> 
> (dates are vague concepts; pls suspend disbelief xoxo)

His first few months in the Rebellion, Kallus takes notes. He’s not sure why, exactly, but it’s hard to miss the churning in his stomach, telling him to _remember._ It’s been years since that was the case, since he felt compelled to grip reality in any tangible way. But when Draven thanks him for his service, assigns him a position in place of a prison cell, Kallus decides he’s going to try again, if only for a bit. He gives himself four months, at most, before he’s dead or replaced or this uprising has been thoroughly squashed. Four months is a good start. Four months is safe, if nothing else. 

Besides, he tells himself. This new organization has some semblance of order, at the very least; the legs it stands on are wobbly, but it’s standing. And here, there are _real_ _meals,_ and officially mandated breaks, and a camaraderie he hasn’t felt since his early days at the Academy. Kallus is almost embarrassed by the realization that he hasn’t had a decent meal, let alone comrades, in… well. A while, to say the least. 

Whether Kallus wants it or not, the urge to _hold on_ has gripped him. A long time ago, he would have assumed warmth like this would survive forever; that they’d flourish in possibilities -somewhat safe, somewhat hopeful. But he knows better, now. He’s learned: none of this lasts. 

So on his fourth day as a decoding specialist, Kallus takes his break a little earlier, in an empty briefing room, and brings the datapad with him. Swipes it open, pulls up a fresh doc. _Might as well._

His first entry is short. Unequivocal, _dull_ even; Kallus does not beat around the bush.

_/3275 LY-2BBY/ 15:00_

_Each decoding trainee is given a personal datapad. Most likely stolen. Wiped before assignment._

Already, he’s impressed with the deft capabilities of this ragtag group. Kallus has never been one to encourage illegal activity, but by this logic everything the Empire has done is just as contentious, if not more so. He quietly curses Garazeb, and by association the Spectres, for making him question everything in the first place. Now the relativity of morality and ethics is a topic he has to _think_ about on a regular basis. It’s uncomfortable, and Kallus hates it.

He types a few more words, deletes them, sits back. Fiddles with the datapad until he’s officially locked the entry (it’s the first thing he learned: lock up everything that could be a weakness). Checks the hallway to make sure no one has seen him.

Kallus feels oddly secretive about the whole endeavor, like he's hiding a broken vase from his mother. Since he’s joined the Rebellion, there’s been a strange sense of childishness about all this; that Kallus is reaching blindly for some kind of structure to cling to, to tell him what to do and where to go. The realization is unnerving, and a small flush works its way up his neck as he titles the doc _notes_ , shoves the datapad into his back pocket, and returns to work.

It is unimportant, he tells himself. Just a record. For old times’ sake.

_/3275 LY-2BBY/ 12:00_

_I have been assigned my own personal desk, as of this morning. Given a supervisory role, my first since joining the Rebellion. I am in charge of twelve new decoding recruits, assigned to the most recently intercepted comm across Empire frequencies. I believe it is a test of sorts, if not for the new recruits, then certainly for me and my reliability. If this is the case, then as of twenty minutes ago I have passed._

After every entry, Kallus locks his datapad, makes the words he’s typed uneditable save for an override code; he’s developing a fascination with the finality of memory, and the further he pushes into the idea of stability, the more important it becomes to keep the writings _exactly_ as he initially types them. There is a hiccup of imperial training left in him, whether he likes it or not. Kallus does not investigate it too closely; he is always careful the first time -there should be no need for rewrites.

_/3276 LY-1BBY/ 16:00_

_The Spectres returned from a mission to [REDACTED] this morning. I find myself hearing of their exploits from everyone except the Spectres themselves, so by the time Zeb brings me the official story I have heard every variation save the truth. The only solid information thus far has been a list of destroyer codes Kanan has submitted to my sector’s database, to be dealt with tomorrow morning. As shift supervisor, these-_

Kallus is abruptly halted by the disappearance of the datapad. He starts, jerking his head up to see the slim piece of machinery floating several feet above him. It shoots away, and Kallus follows the movement with a sinking stomach, because he knows where the datapad will land, who will catch it-

“What’s this?” Ezra Bridger asks, a sly smile alighting at the corner of his mouth as he dusts the edges of the datapad. “Rebellion secrets?”

He strolls towards Kallus, his finger flicking lazily as he scrolls to the top of the doc. Kallus hates that he feels a flush rising in his cheeks, his ears. He hates that he feels guilty, like he’s been _caught_.

“Give that back,” he hisses, lunging for the datapad. Ezra steps neatly out of the way.

“One minute, I’m not done yet.” The Jedi is smiling as he skims through the now-daily entries; but as Kallus watches, his lip quickly curls into an expression of disappointment. The next swipe Kallus makes for the datapad is dodged, but Ezra has already given up on reading.

“Stars,” he says, handing the datapad back. “I thought I’d find something interesting in there, but shit’s dry as a bone. You’ve really got to loosen up, Kallus.” He offers an encouraging shrug. “Talk about your feelings or whatever it is you got going on in there.”

“And risk your Jedi tricks exposing my every whim? I think not.”

“Oho!” Ezra laughs. “So you _do_ have feelings!

“I would hope so,” Kallus says stiffly. “But this is just for notetaking. Not personal anecdotes.”

Ezra raises his eyebrows in playful apprehension, and for a moment Kallus thinks he’s going to say something rude, but then he shrugs and brushes past, continuing on down the hallway. 

“If you’re gonna be a part of the Rebellion, you might want to consider personal anecdotes!” Ezra adds over his shoulder. “After all, this whole thing is about what we feel is right.”

Kallus pauses, turns as Ezra recedes from his vision. The kid used to be all arms and legs, but now, watching him saunter down the hallway, Kallus is struck by the realization that Bridger has grown up. Lengthened his stride, filled out that tiny frame, somewhere along the line when Kallus wasn’t paying attention.

“Also, there aren’t any good holodramas anymore, and I need something fun to keep up with.”

 _Nevermind_. Ezra is already almost at the end of the hall, making to turn the corner, out of sight.

“I’m not fun!” he calls after the Jedi, but the only response is his own echo, bouncing back along the metallic walls like some sort of depressing chorus.

He adds another codephrase to the datapad. Just in case.

_/3276 LY-1BBY/ 04:00_

_There were five of them. Bomu, Madd’ak, Nuvi, Dua, and their brother Jae. Bomu was funny, or at least, he thought he was funny. Man could stick six ration bars in his mouth and still whistle. When I was a cadet, I thought it was the peak of humor._

Kallus doesn’t mean to write about his squad. He will go to his grave saying that naming them was never his intention; but then he’s alone in his bunk, hasn’t slept in three days, and he could swear he heard Bomu’s laughter down the corridor. And there’s not much else to do, now, but remember.

_Madd’ak was one of the best fighters I have ever seen, bar none; we started out ISB training together, fell into different focuses, and were reassigned to my first squad just after graduating the Academy. I was excitable at the time. So when she was assigned to my unit, we went out drinking. If I remember correctly, we had been kicked out of every bar on Coruscant by the time I was promoted. By then I was the only officer left of the six of us, so it did not matter quite as much._

_Nuvi wanted to rise as high as possible in the empire. She was driven, committed. I don’t remember meeting her; but I remember the first time we sparred. Disarmed me in half a second._

_Dua and Jae were both deaf. Cleverest coders I ever knew; they never left each other’s side, even at the end. I remember them holding hands as the mercenary cut them down. He was cruel; he took out Jae first, and made Dua watch. They were pinned under a pile of rubble when he shot Jae, and I believe it was their shriek that woke me._

_I told Zeb, and I have yet to find an answer._

_I always wondered why he let me live. Did I seem unimportant, after all that? Was it-_

He doesn’t finish the entry.

_/3276 LY-1BBY/ 19:00_

_Nothing to report._

_/3276 LY-1BBY/ 23:00_

_This evening marks another successful strike against the Empire. Not groundbreaking, but we are beginning to see legitimate cracks in their defenses -especially of transport ships and the military’s now-limited capabilities to provide armed escort. We are gaining ground. Of note: Wedge Antilles is quickly becoming a glowing young pilot. Hera is very prou-_

“Would you put that down?”

Kallus squints up into the overhead light. It takes a moment for Zeb’s form to register, and those broad shoulders double for a moment as he concentrates. Nobody on the base has a voice that rumbles in their chest the way Zeb’s does; Kallus should have known it was him from the reverberations alone. But he’s a little tipsy, if he’s being honest, and focusing is not high on his list of priorities right now. If anything, it’s sitting up.

Maybe he’s a little more than tipsy. Unimportant.

“Put what down?” he asks. Zeb gestures to the datapad as best he can. He’s holding two glasses of some strange, bubbling liquid, but it smells like citrus and Kallus blearily decides _that’s an excellent scent to pair with Lasat._ He stifles a laugh, purses his lips instead.

“You’re on that datapad-thing all day,” Zeb says.

“I am _not_ .” Kallus is not in the mood for an intelligent conversation. “Besides, I’m the one who got Phoenix Squadron the codes they needed to hack that cargo ship this morning, so technically you should be _thanking_ me for spending so much time on it in the first place.”

Zeb scoffs. He sidles up to the crate, bumps Kallus’ shoulder with his elbow. “Move over.”

Kallus obediently shuffles aside, and Zeb relaxes slightly onto the edge of the makeshift seat. He offers one of the cups to Kallus; when he takes it, a wobbly bubble rises to the surface of the drink and explodes just below his nose with a loud _pop_. Unexpected.

“What’s this?”

“It was _supposed_ to be a thank you for the codes, but I’m startin’ to wonder if I should’ve charged you for it.”

“Saving your life isn’t enough payment?”

Zeb chuckles. “You got me there, agent.” He takes a swig from his glass, gasps. Soft nose wrinkles up to meet thick brows in a grimace, as the liquid invariably bubbles behind his tongue. “Karabast, this stuff is awful. How do you humans stomach it?”

Kallus takes a tentative sip from his cup. The liquid is bitterly cold at first, and he can feel small seltzer bubbles popping as he swallows; there is a sharp burn as it recedes in his throat, but the aftertaste… isn’t terrible. It’s like a sugary ale, but a little stronger. He blinks, and the world spins a bit. No. A _lot_ stronger.

“I don’t know if humans are _supposed_ to stomach this,” he replies slowly, rolling his tongue along the back of his teeth. “It feels… heavy.”

“Prolly is.” Zeb takes another swig, hisses a bit. “You all have tender stomachs anyways, can’t handle anything too intense or you get all giggly. I’ve seen it before, with…” he trails off, and they are quiet for a moment. _Kanan_. Zeb doesn’t talk about him much, actively avoids the subject if he can. It’s only when his tongue has been loosened by alcohol or sleep deprivation that he starts a sentence like that, forgetting where it ends and following it right into a nest of grief. 

He is foolish, and he is so full of love, and Kallus doesn’t know what to do, all of a sudden. He silently makes a toast to Kanan, and drinks again. Stars, but this stuff is good -he needs to be careful.

“Have you ever wondered… what comes next?” Beside him, Zeb’s voice is soft. Closer to his ear than Kallus thought.

“What do you mean?”

Zeb clears his throat. He seems suddenly uncomfortable, all elbows and ears and… avoidance? Kallus can’t tell.

“You know… like… after the war?”

“Is this the universe in which we win, or lose?”

Zeb shrugs. The X-Wing towering above them casts a sharp, blue shadow over his expression; not that Kallus could make it out if he tried, he’s so dizzy. He leans in to better observe this strangely cryptic Lasat.

“I don’t know,” Zeb says after a pause. “I mean, let’s start off pessimistic. That’s your favorite route, anyways.”

Kallus opens his mouth to explain _Garazeb, it’s not that I’m pessimistic, I just see all of the possible outcomes and I account for the variables you refuse to acknowledge_ , but Zeb keeps going. “Say we lose. The Empire wins, and we all have to go into hiding. What would you do?”

Hmm. It’s not an enjoyable question, by any means; and a chill begins to creep up Kallus’ back as a loud crash emanates from the warehouse, followed by shrieks of laughter. Nobody else is thinking like this. Nobody _wants_ to.

“I suppose I’d go to one of those planets Rex gave the Rebellion, back when you recruited him,” Kallus says after a moment. “Join whatever resistance was salvaged; there’s always one or two cells that survive a purge like that. Try and help, if I could.” He doesn’t try to hide the smile pushing at his lips. He can blame it on the alcohol, later. “Maybe I’d grow a beard.”

Zeb laughs, but keeps his gaze firmly fixed on the drink clasped between his hands. “Defeat would bring out the rugged loner in you, eh?”

“You could call it that.” Kallus shrugs, lets the smile settle at the edges of his mouth. “I’ve been here too long, though. I can’t go back to the Empire, and I can’t run and hide on some backwater planet. You and your Rebel friends got in my head, Garazeb, and have yet to leave me in peace.” 

He feels Zeb relax beside him, realizes with a rush that he’s leaned terribly close to the Lasat; there is a whisper of fur at his arm. In an attempt to steer himself back to a solid upright position without bringing attention to himself, Kallus feigns a swig from his glass as part of the larger movement. But he forgets that he’s supposed to keep his mouth closed, and instinct parts his lips, lets the bubbly liquid rush down his throat. The dark shadows on his knees double, then triple. Kallus knows, from experience, that as soon as he rises he’ll be hit with a drunken rush, will probably collapse in place. He should warn Zeb.

Instead, he says: “And you? What would you do?”

Zeb shakes his head. “Nah. I’ve already lost everything, and look where I am now. I figure, it’d probably be the same story. ‘Cept my knees would hurt more.”

He sounds sadder than before; his shoulders have slumped, ears flattened against his skull. Kallus gets the distinct impression that he’s hurt Zeb, somehow, and discomfort stirs in his gut. When Zeb gets like this, it’s Kallus’ job to be the sober one, the calm one; talk him through this, out to the other side. Except right now, Kallus is anything but calm. And he’s _definitely_ not sober.

But he’s also not a fool. Kallus blows a heavy breath out through his lips -he’s losing composure, damn it- and eyes Zeb. An idea sparks in the back of his head.

“All right, we went my way. Now let’s try yours.”

Zeb’s face is a web of confusion and shadows. “What?”

“We considered defeat, and its aftermath. But-” Kallus forgets his words for a minute, scrambles to find the sentence before it’s lost- “what if we _win_?”

“Huh. I never really thought about that. I’d probably… go traveling.” Zeb says, carefully. His words have begun to slur, so clearly he’s not as immune to this drink as he initially implied, but Kallus can tell that he’s still dancing around something. For a moment he wishes he hadn’t drunk so much, so he could catch the hitches in Zeb’s breath, decode this strangely intimate discussion without the looming fog of alcohol.

He should probably drink some water.

Zeb’s profile comes back into focus. He is still talking, albeit haltingly: “I’ve heard there are... small outposts of Lasats, at the edges of the galaxy. Nobody knows where though. I think… I think I’d like to try and find them. Build a home of sorts, I guess.”

Something in Kallus tightens. He finds himself opening his mouth for breath, gasping in the soft breeze; he didn’t notice it till it was too late, but all the air has suddenly fled his lungs.

Zeb cocks his head in Kallus’ direction, his ears flicking at some far-off sound. He seems embarrassed, somehow. As though he’s realized that this conversation has veered into uncharted territory, and he doesn’t know what to do next.

“Would you go it alone?”

A flush creeps up Kallus’ neck as he realizes _he_ just asked that question. Let it leave his lips, hover in the air as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Zeb stiffens. He glances down and away, and the tightness in Kallus’ chest pulses. _You idiot, why would you go and throw out words like that as if you’re so kriffing dear to each other, this is what you get for drinking so much and pushing your luck like a karking Jedi-_

“I don’t think so.” Zeb says suddenly; and then he’s looking right at Kallus, his eyes bright in the cool of evening. “I think I’d like to -to have someone come along.”

For a moment there is silence between them, linked only by the echo of Zeb’s voice. The air is strangely heavy, thick with anticipation; and Kallus feels his stomach flip in a way he’s almost forgotten, it’s been so long. When Zeb looks away, Kallus thinks the moment will pass with the loss of eye contact - but to his surprise the weight remains. He gets the sense that something has shifted between them. _What_ exactly, Kallus couldn’t say.

Maybe it’s the alcohol loosening his tongue so completely (it’s _definitely_ the alcohol), but Kallus finds himself rocking a bit on the crate as he inhales noisily. Turns to Zeb, who’s concentrating so hard on the drink in his hands it may as well be a bomb. As he says:

“Anyone in mind?”

Zeb’s gaze snaps up to meet his, those vivid eyes wide with surprise. Kallus does his best to sit still, to _focus_ , and although he has to close one eye to see it clearly, he notes with a slight thrill that within a heartbeat the surprise is replaced with confusion, and then, finally, understanding. The Lasat cracks a smile; and at almost seven feet, it really shouldn’t be possible -but he looks almost _shy_.

“Eh, nobody yet,” He says teasingly. “There aren’t a lot of folks who can keep up with me.”

Kallus tries to look apprehensive, but raising an eyebrow in his state is a lot harder than he’d anticipated. “Have you seen yourself, Garazeb? If someone wasn’t there to wake you, you’d sleep through the next regime.”

Zeb laughs loudly at that, almost a roar of humor. 

“Well if that’s the case,” he snorts, “ I guess I’ll need a partner who couldn’t miss a shift if his life depended on it,”

And Zeb’s laughing so noisily, he misses the inadvertant hitch in Kallus’ breath. Or at least, Kallus needs to believe that; because his world is spinning, and this time not with alcohol. In fact, he’s never sobered up so quickly in his life.

 _That’s it_ , Kallus realizes. His chest tightens. _Nothing will ever be the same again._

He takes another drink.

/ _3276 LY-1BBY_ / 11:00

_Today another spar inhibitor was found in one of the x-wings. This is the fourth one this month; we are fortunate in that as the s-foil overheats, thus far the trackers have melted beyond repair. It seems that they are magnetic. If we were to check each aileron for small trackers, I believe we would have a better chance avoiding detection when transporting cargo. The Empire is greatly dependent upon high command’s decision-making. Individual ships will not move on their own for fear of internal retaliation, but TIE-equipped freighters are cause for alarm as they are much more likely to release trackers, never mind shoot on sight. I believe I have developed a system for efficiently evaluating returning ships, but must run it by Hera before I even consider bringing it to Draven’s attention. He may be my superior, but Hera commands every ship in the Rebellion. To be frank, I value her input most._

The war drags on. An ache settles in Kallus, an expectation of loss, almost. He tries not to think too much about the future, although every part of him is heavy with dread. Zeb may call him a worrier, but Kallus knows, has seen this before; sometimes things can’t end the way you want them to, the way you promise they will. And a war like this? Even in the beginning, there’s no “good” way out. At this rate, they’ll be lucky to go down fighting.

_/3276 LY-1BBY/ 07:00_

_Zeb takes his caf so milky, one could argue it isn’t even caf anymore. I pointed this out to him, and received a sharp reminder that I take my caf “so bitter, it may as well be Sith spit.” Of note: if the ratio of caf to milk is too far off, his ears will flatten like a lothcat’s._

Kallus does not write about the hookups. To do so would not only be improper -it’s a Rebellion datapad, in the end- but also entirely too _tangible_ for his liking. To see his actions in text, glaring back at him, would prove that this is real; and what is he to do with himself, if he writes the truth?

That he uses the Rebellion for his own ends, even still, after all this time? That at every victory celebration he drinks himself into bravery like some shattered cadet, until he finds a version of himself that can finally, _finally_ ask for _something_? That these days he wakes, hungover, every muscle screaming for relief, and there is Zeb, beside him? 

Stars, no.

Kallus may be a fool, but nobody need know that but him.

_/3276 LY-1BBY/ 13:00_

_Jacen was born this morning, 04:00 hours. 2 weeks early, a surprise to everyone. Hera most of all. Sabine and Zeb were on a mission in [REDACTED] so we sent a one-way hologram of Hera and the new baby to tide them over; no one expected it of her, but she still held her morning briefing, albeit from bed, and at this rate she’ll be leading exercises day after tomorrow. Probably earlier, if her previous recoveries are anything to go by. Wedge had a betting pool going about what the baby’s name would be, and as I was privy to the information I abstained. Zeb, however, just lost a lot of credits._

_/3276 LY-1BBY/ 17:00_

_Zeb had to ask for a “small loan” to keep Wedge off his back. When I told him he was officially in my debt, he winked and said “Anything you’d like as payment, Agent?” Cheeky asshole. I wish he’d stop calling me Agent. After all, I'm a Captain now._

“You know, Ezra told me you kept a diary. I didn’t believe him at first.” Sabine says, as Kallus sets his tray down across from her. He realizes with a start that she’s got his datapad in one hand and is scrolling through the entries. In less than a minute she has hacked through every code he’s put in place to protect these bland entries. Clearly it took minimal effort to override them; and Kallus can’t bring himself to be quite as frustrated as he _wants_ to be. It’s Sabine, after all -he should have known that a Rebellion-issued datapad with two layers of protection was no match for her.

She glances up at him, looking bored. “He told me it was dry stuff, but stars, Kal, you’re wound up tighter than an ion coil, huh?”

Kallus blinks, sits down instead of immediately responding. She’s taller, now. Her cheeks are puffed mid-chew, a rough imitation of youth; but her eyes are glassed over with exhaustion. How old is she, now?

“I wouldn’t say I’m wound up,” he replies stiffly. “I just don’t see the need for overly flowery language.”

“You write ‘Nothing to report’ almost every day,” Sabine says. “I wouldn’t say you’re the poetic type.”

Kallus frowns. Sabine is still scrolling, but her eyes aren’t flicking back and forth. She’s not taking in any new information, just rereading the entries; Kallus sighs. _Of course_. On top of everything else, she’s a fast reader. He makes a mental note to never unclip his datapad from his belt again, even if that means an awkward trip to the fresher.

He’s not picky, but Kallus can’t help but raise an eyebrow at the sorry state of his lunch, quietly wishing for some kind of color; the Rebellion really has spoiled him. But when he glances back up, Sabine has put his datapad down; she holds his gaze, laces her fingers together severely. She seems suddenly pensive.

“About your squad…” she says, quietly. “I’m sorry.”

Kallus’ stomach drops into the floor; in the span of a second, his appetite has fled. He can’t look at her. “It is what it is.”

“That doesn’t make what happened _right_.”

“Perhaps.” He pokes at the mush on his plate.

“I didn’t know,” Sabine adds. Her voice is low, steady; Kallus is struck by the sense that she is attempting to offer condolences. She’s terrible at it.

He reaches for the datapad. “How could you possibly know? It’s not something I felt the need to mention, and certainly not publicly.”

“I’m sorry,” says Sabine. Kallus gets the distinct impression that she’s apologizing for several things, all at once. He shakes his head, just a little; he should know, by now, how the Mandalorian operates. She doesn’t hate him the same way, but words have always come second to actions; unless he’s very much mistaken, she may even be trying to _connect_.

“Thank you,” he says after a moment, because it’s worth a shot, after all. To his surprise Sabine actually brightens, just a bit, doesn’t mention the topic again. They finish their meal in silence.

_/3276 LY-1BBY/ 06:00_

_Jacen is growing quickly. He is a quiet child, serious. He has his father’s eyes and the beginnings of his mother’s lekku. I haven’t seen a human infant in a long time, and when asked to hold him I admit, I was apprehensive. I was concerned that I would drop him, so Zeb went first._

“He’s… small,” says Zeb. In his arms, Jacen is barely visible. He is dominated by thick, large palms, sharp claws, but the infant doesn’t make a sound. Just watches them, blinking at the Lasat without so much as a burble of confusion. Zeb, to his credit, blinks back. He shuffles Jacen into the crook of his elbow, sits back on the bunk and brings the infant close to his chest. Rocks him, a bit, until even Kallus can hear the soft rumble of his purr. 

Slowly Kallus reaches a hand out, lets his knuckles rest at the baby’s forehead. Jacen is still too new to turn his head, but his eyes attempt to follow Kallus’ fingers; he strokes gently at the soft curls just above the baby’s brows, and Jacen lets out a quiet coo in response. Zeb is right; he is so small. And then again, so are they.

“He’ll grow,” he says after a moment. “After all, he _did_ arrive a little earlier than intended.”

Zeb snorts. “Impatient lil guy, huh?”

“He’ll be in excellent company, with you as an uncle.”

“That’s offensive,” Zeb says, but he’s still smiling. The heavy roll of his purr has yet to subside; and there’s a new softness to his face that Kallus doesn’t quite know what to do with. It’s not _peaceful_ , exactly; but maybe the closest Zeb’s ever come to it. His throat feels suddenly constricted.

“Wanna hold him?” Zeb’s voice is quiet. Kallus shakes his head.

“No.”

“How come?”

Kallus keeps his gaze focused on Jacen, adjusting the blanket around his head. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

Zeb scoffs. “Come on, Kal. Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m not being ridiculous!”

“Weren’t you the one who wouldn’t shut up about how he commanded star destroyers?”

“Garazeb, I _did_ command star destroyers.”

“Well then, if you could steer those hunks of metal and survive, you can hold a tiny kit for a few minutes. Come on, Kal.” Zeb cocks an ear in Kallus’ direction. “What’re you so ‘fraid of? He hasn’t got any teeth yet.” he bares his own, sharp fangs as some sort of example. 

“I… I don’t-” Kallus tries not to choke on the stupidity of the words as they tumble out of his mouth. “I don’t want to drop him.”

It’s so small, the catch in Zeb’s breath when Kallus looks up and meets the Lasat’s gaze. For a moment, he wonders if it was just his imagination; decides it must have been, when Zeb chuffs, and bares those sharp teeth in a rueful grin. _Of course._

Zeb doesn’t hesitate. It’s not in his nature.

“Don’t worry. I’ll catch him,” the Lasat says playfully after a moment. He winks, proffers up the bundle of blankets. “I’ve got good reflexes.”

And Kallus can’t resist _that_. How could he, after everything? He nods, leans forward; any semblance of verbiage has escaped him. Zeb just smiles, all teeth and pride. He leans in, slowly, until their shoulders are brushing. Rocks Jacen in his arms, loosening the bend at the elbow so that Kallus can reach in with folded hands.

 _Careful,_ he thinks, _careful, careful_ , and feels an unexpected rush of adrenaline as Jacen is shuffled into his arms. Zeb’s bicep presses against his. The solace is immediate; If Kallus isn’t attentive, he knows, he could slip into the kind of fantasy that convinces him this is real. These days, fantasy veers far too close to reality for Kallus’ taste. And he has no time for that kind of thinking.

Then there’s a child in his arms. And nothing matters anymore, except for him.

Jacen is light, but his little brow is furrowed in a severity that belies the eight weeks he’s been in the world. A warmth blooms in his gut at the sight, a melting sensation that he does not recognize. Kallus has never considered himself soft -the word itself isn’t even in his vocabulary- but looking down at the infant, all fierce blue eyes and spotted skin, he wonders if perhaps he’s not so far off from the descriptor, after all; a blink, and Jacen blurs beneath his gaze. Kallus realizes with a jolt that his eyes are wet.

“He likes you,” Zeb says. He sounds choked.

“He’s a _baby_.”

“Exactly.” 

Zeb is still so close, he hasn’t made to move away even though Jacen is firmly settled in Kallus’ arms. He seems to be struggling internally, muscles stiff and ears twitching. Kallus doesn’t turn to check what might be causing the discomfort; in fact he refuses to look up and see what Zeb’s even _considering._ He’s not going to risk it. Not now, not ever.

So he stays still. Even as Zeb sighs, heavy, like he’s given up, and leans more of his weight tentatively into Kallus’ side. Warm and comforting.

He’d be lying if he said he didn’t lean in, too. Meet Zeb halfway. 

Their temples touch, slowly, and with a sharp exhale Zeb relaxes into his side. The Lasat’s fur is soft against his head, the pressure gentle and inviting. Kallus realizes that Zeb is still breathing shallowly; there’s a childish hesitation to the gesture that makes all of this feel new and tender, in a way Kallus did not expect; not that he ever expected any of this, save the early mornings spent in Zeb’s bunk. He is reminded, all of a sudden, of the first time he found himself pressed up against the Lasat’s side, head crooked into the thick muscles of his neck. How long has it been, since then?

How did they get here?

Does it matter?

Zeb hums against his hair; his arm has snuck around behind Kallus. And it’s not that Zeb is _holding_ him, exactly, but he’s not pulling away either.

Kallus breathes, deep. Tries to relax. He knows he _shouldn’t_ , but he can’t help tilting into Zeb's temple, cheekbone; and there is the quiet scrape of claws against sheets, as Zeb in turn moves his arm ever so slightly, and rests a hand gently at Kallus’ lower back.

In his arms Jacen coos softly, blinking up at them with serious, bright eyes. _He looks just like his mother._

Something surges in his mind, again. A reminder. Only a few years ago, this seemed like a fantasy; back then the _Ghost_ crew were simply wanted thieves, Kallus just an Imperial agent. The lines were clearer, in those days, the decisions cut and dry. Empire versus Rebels. Now… well. Now he sits in what used to be a shared bunk, with what was once his nemesis, cradling the child of a Rebellion pilot and a Jedi.

He tries not to focus on how few of them are left.

Instead, Kallus rocks Jacen a little in his arms, decides he’ll finish his entry once Hera returns. He’ll wrap up the sentence, mark the date and time. Add one more line, perhaps. For Ezra’s sake.

_/3277 LY-0BBY/04:00_

_Lost two crates in a docking mission; no casualties, but several crates of ammunition are now floating somewhere in [REDACTED]. I am under orders to track our ships’ progress in an attempt to recover the lost cargo, but it is very clearly a lost cause. Of note: Garazeb is being transferred as security commander to an undeveloped Rebel outpost. Apparently they’re looking to make it a complete base. At his own admission, he is not looking forward to the cold of [REDACTED], but did announce very loudly that he looks quite dashing in his Rebellion-issued coat. Several times._

When the transfer order comes down, Kallus almost writes it off as a joke. He’s busy working on an extended supplies spreadsheet, so he can’t take it seriously; refuses to. Even when Zeb’s figure lights up his comm, pointedly avoiding eye contact, and tells him about some far-off outpost on Hoth, Kallus almost smiles. It must be a joke. They don’t _really_ need a patrol squad on that ashla-forsaken planet; they _can’t_.

“Guess so,” Zeb says awkwardly. “I ship out next week.”

“What about Yavin? Don’t they need you here?” Kallus tries not to sound desperate, because he’s _not._

“I’ve trained enough recruits for a security force here,” Zeb says. “They need me to whip the guards into shape out there, they’ve probably gotten lazy with the cold.” He grins, the small blue hologram flickering at Kallus’ wrist as he adds, “I’m a guardsman, remember? I’ve trained soldiers before, and I’m pretty damn good at it. Try not to look so surprised.”

Kallus forces a laugh; it’s short and dry, and it sounds so fake he’s surprised neither of them winces.

“We’ll have to get you a proper winter coat,” he says. “Your ego won’t keep you warm forever.”

“I’m counting on your eye, Agent,” Zeb says, but his ears are flat against his head. He severs the call.

_/3277 LY-0BBY/ 10:00_

_Saw Zeb off today._

Kallus pointedly refuses to write about the days leading up to Zeb’s departure. He considers it, of course; but pulling up the doc means scrolling through old entries, means stumbling across sentences littered with Zeb anecdotes. Suddenly the concept of _remembering_ leaves a sour taste in his mouth; he fights the desire to delete the entire document, knows he’ll regret it if he does.

So Kallus does the next best thing, the thing that kept his squad tucked away in the corner of his mind for all those years. He burns it into his memory.

It isn’t easy. 

The last three days are the hardest. They’re both swamped with busywork, barely managing a passing hello in the hallway or an eye roll in the back of briefing rooms. Kallus is surprised to find himself, for the first time, overwhelmed with thoughts. 

Of course, now he can’t say any of them. 

The night before Zeb leaves, Hera hands off practice to Hobbie for the first time in months and meets the two of them for dinner, Jacen on her hip. They’re a ragtag bunch, now, a shadow of the crew Kallus was briefed on all those years ago. Over reheated rations they make a murmured toast to Kanan, Ezra, and Sabine, then let Jacen take up the majority of the conversation. He’s still a quiet child, but clearly inherited his mother’s intelligence. Spoons and napkins only hold his attention for so long; he’s most at ease when he’s on Zeb’s lap, playing with the overlapping textures of his jumpsuit and stroking the Lasat’s fur back and forth. If it hurts, Zeb makes no sign of it. Kallus can’t bear to watch them for too long, but he makes himself memorize the sight of the two. Of Zeb, straddled across the bench, Jacen bouncing on one knee with little fingers curled around his belt loop.

It hurts to watch, which guarantees that he will remember.

There isn’t much to remember, but that’s fine by Kallus. It’s probably best that there’s no alternative agenda. He would rather play the observer as the evening progresses in its normal way; Hera puts Jacen down early and tries to finish some work while beating them both at dejarik. Twice.

They call Sabine for a quick hello, but there is no answer; she doesn’t pick up, these days, rarely even sends a message. Hera doesn’t say it, but the absence clearly hurts; and so it isn’t exactly surprising when she retires soon after, high on her wins and several credits richer, leaving Kallus and Zeb alone in the _Ghost’s_ cabin.

Kallus rearranges the table for a fresh game of dejarik.

He finds it painfully fascinating that considering how much he has to say now, when faced with Zeb somehow the words flee anyways. Not that anything he could say would change this outcome.

_Right?_

“You go first,” Zeb says, carefully. Kallus nudges his karkath forward. “Ready for tomorrow?”

Zeb shoots him an exasperated look as he makes his move with a slim ng’ok. Kallus gets the sense that this isn’t really a game; that they’ll both be lucky if it ends in a draw. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

Kallus tries for levity, figures he may as well joke instead of voice the possibilities this separation exposes. “Make sure you keep in touch, Garazeb. There’s what, twenty people on that base? You have no excuse to miss a call.”

_Don’t think about goodbye. Soldiers don’t say goodbye._

Zeb smiles as he fiddles with the board, but there’s no energy in the expression. It drips from his face almost immediately, and when Kallus blinks he may as well have said nothing at all. He makes his move.

“War’s gonna be over soon,” Zeb says after a moment.

“I wouldn’t bet too many credits on that.”

“I can feel it.” The Lasat’s eyes are directed towards the tiny hologram flickering at his wrist, but they’ve glassed over; he’s looking at something else, something neither of them can see. “No matter how this plays out, we’re gonna be home free soon.”

He flicks his gaze up to Kallus. Sharp green eyes dart over his face, like Zeb is searching for something; but he doesn’t find it. For a moment he looks kriffing _desperate_ . His ears droop, just a bit, and Kallus is reminded of a wounded lothcat. It’s almost painful to see him like this without reason -raw and intimate and somehow so beyond them both. For a moment, Kallus wonders what it would be like to link his fingers with Zeb’s. _No strings attached_ , they both promised that a long time ago; but still, the idea floats above the table, almost too tempting to pass up. He _knows_ it's almost over. This could be the last time, after all... 

He shifts his hand just a bit, makes to move towards Zeb.

But Zeb’s already turning away from him, arm braced on the top of the booth. He scoots out of the small seat and unfolds to his full height with a soft grunt, his back to Kallus. He looks intimidating and powerful, always does; but Kallus can’t help but think that for the first time, despite the fluorescent lights, he looks almost defeated.

“Goodnight,” is all Zeb says, before he pads away down the hall; Kallus watches him go, knows his eyes are wide and his mouth slightly ajar. Doesn’t bother to collect himself. He is overwhelmed with the crushing sense that something has ended. That it’s his fault.

He doesn’t sleep that night.

Kallus almost writes about the actual goodbye, settles for a sentence. It’s not a farewell worth writing about anyways. It’s an awkward affair, just a jarred, uncomfortable hug in his office -in front of his equally uncomfortable staff. A hastily cleared throat, followed by an even more strained “best of luck,” and jaunty wave from Zeb. He tries again for that smile, and it holds long enough to push the Lasat to the door; but when he fully turns away, Kallus knows it’s disappeared again.

He debates watching Zeb go, but that would be too easy; it would imply that this is permanent, and he can’t have that. Focuses on the steel tips of his boots, instead.

He stops writing in the datapad, for a while. Suddenly he has nothing to say.

_/3277 LY-0BBY/ 06:00_

_Sabine left for Mandalore today. She has her own squad, now, each soldier sporting hand-crafted, personalized armor. Of note: we have landed our first hit to the Empire in several months, completely disabling an entire Secutor-class star destroyer, but the success also brought the revelation of a disturbing new weapon. They call it the Death Star; it seems terribly dramatic, with little information available save panicked rumors. Zeb told me that if_ he _had a deadly weapon, he’d name it something much more interesting, but the comm cut out before he could tell me._

“Have you considered transferring?” Hera asks. They’re cleaning up the briefing room in the Eastern Temple today, dusting the age off of disused lockers and prepping the ancient holoprojector for new downloads. Jacen is busy in his playpen, turning a string of small wooden cubes around in his hands and gurgling; usually he’s strapped to Hera’s back, but stars know she needs to watch him closely now. As of a few days ago, he’s started moving things with his mind.

“What do you mean?” Kallus asks in what he hopes is a nonchalant voice. He leans into an empty locker and scoops a thick layer of muck out of the far right corner. His gloved hand comes away cobwebbed and sticky. It’s utterly disgusting; Kallus grimaces.

Hera sighs. She’s at the far end of the room tinkering with an electrical socket, so Kallus can’t see her expression, but he knows immediately that she’s rolling her eyes.

“I’m not playing this game with you, Kallus,” she says sharply. “I don’t have time to feign ignorance. Do whatever you feel is best, whether that’s staying here or moving on. But you should know-” her voice softens “-a gesture like that wouldn’t go unrewarded.”

Suddenly Kallus is overwhelmed by a heavy pressure in his head, a pounding that is only enhanced by the flush he feels creeping up his neck. Is he… panicking? About to sneeze? It’s probably some terrible combination of the two that coats his reply.

“I see.” He swallows, thickly. “Thank you, Hera.”

(It’s a sneeze.)

_/3277 LY-0BBY/ 07:00_

_At breakfast Jacen made a sound that we think was “ryma,” although it also could have been a burp. Hera was so shocked, she almost dropped the spoon. She told me that it means “mother” in Twi’leki. I will have to make a note of the language, should Jacen conveniently say anything else; Sabine would have been overjoyed had she been present this morning, but with any luck next time Jacen sees her he’ll be babbling like a tooka._

_/3277 LY-0BBY/ 03:00_

_kjghfdsffhj when hjb sll_

_/3277 LY-0BBY/ 04:00_

_Lkjhvmn io am khj . Nothing to report._

Several haphazard, drunken entries follow. Kallus could delete them -probably should- but these days he’s too tired to dig through old docs for his override code; he leaves the fumbled words as they are, unreadable and, somehow, deeply unsettling.

_/3277 LY-0BBY/ 05:00_

_Nothing to report._

Kallus writes the request during one of these blurry nights, waits until he’s sober to send it to Draven. It may be the boldest thing Kallus has ever done, and that includes abandoning the Empire; so he tries not to focus on it too much.

_/3277 LY-0BBY/ 12:00_

_Transfer to [REDACTED] went through this morning. I will be joining Garazeb and General Cracken as the outpost’s resident splicer . After my time at the academy, I thought I would have lost the desire for promotion; and yet, every time I am commended for my service, that same rush of pride remains._

To say Hoth is cold is an understatement. Kallus almost prefers it to the humidity of Yavin, at first, but within twenty minutes of stepping off his transport ship he’s second-guessing the decision. The planet is almost inhospitable. They told him on the ride here: everyone calls it Echo Base because there’s so little life, all the listening equipment ever picks up are staticky echoes of wind.

It’s certainly eerie, if not not downright creepy, but Kallus can’t afford to make a conspicuous entrance. After all, only General Cracken knows he’s come in with the new recruits. Kallus isn’t quite ready to deal with the reality of his actions, not until he’s had a drink, quelled the sneaking suspicion that he’s deeply misread several years worth of interactions.

That this is just a huge mistake. And now, there’s no way out.

 _No._ It’s too late to think like that. Kallus is a soldier, and soldiers go where they’re ordered; best he can do now is move forward.

He hoists his duffel higher on his shoulder as he strides across the landing pad to the outpost’s entrance. He’s been assigned a bunk in the fourth barrack, first shift is tomorrow at 07:00. That gives him five, no, six hours to eat and get as much sleep as possible before-

“Karabast... _Kallus_?”

So much for an inconspicuous entrance.

Kallus only lets out one shaky breath before he turns, straightens his shoulders. Clears his throat. _May as well get this over with now._

“Zeb,” he says carefully.

Zeb is standing at the landing pad’s entrance. He looks taller, almost hulking save the dark circles beneath his eyes. But maybe that’s just his coat; from where Kallus is standing, hand at the door, it looks as though a piece of the snowstorm has swept inside, all wind and ice and huffs of warm breath.

“Just couldn’t stay away, could ye?’ Zeb says. He starts forward, almost hesitantly, haphazard pauses between each step. A trail of water droplets follow him, as layers of snow collide with the hot air of the hangar.

“I told you,” Kallus says, slowly. “You damn Rebels got in my head, Garazeb. And you have yet to leave me in peace.”

“And of course you chased me all the way out here to remind me,” Zeb’s voice is light; he picks up his pace, and Kallus can’t help but take a few steps forward himself. “You’re such a stickler, I bet you followed protocol to the letter. Prolly waited for the official clearance and everything.”

With only a few more steps Zeb has all but closed the distance between them. Up close, Kallus can see that the frozen temperatures of Hoth have not been kind to the Lasat; he looks almost haggard, his beard dripping with icicles and his nose reddened and wet from the frigid winds. But his eyes are bright, brighter than Kallus has ever seen them; and it’s because he knows his next words will drag a fanged grin to the fore, that he raises an eyebrow, says:

“I am nothing if not efficient, Zeb.”

“Kallus, you’re the least efficient Imperial I’ve ever met.”

When Zeb sweeps forward to pull Kallus into a smothering hug, he makes sure there is a rumble of laughter to offset the sharp response. He squeezes Kallus tight against his chest, chuffs in his ear. A purr works its way up his throat and hums against Kallus’ cheek. Warm, comforting.

“Been a minute,” Zeb murmurs, and Kallus is afraid he will melt. He is vaguely aware that he’s dropped his duffel, that his thin Yavin jacket is already soaked through with icy water. _Should have kept the coat on_ , he thinks mildly, even as he fists the collar of Zeb’s hood and lets himself be swung around like a child. Once, twice, in solid circles.

“Indeed,” he hums instead, as Zeb comes to a stop, arms still tight around his waist. They’re close enough now that Kallus can feel the puffs of warm breath pooling in the crook of his neck, and even though he _really shouldn’t_ , _he’s jeopardized things enough as is,_ he can’t help it. He turns into the sensation. 

What shocks him is that Zeb follows suit, tilts his head just so, like he knows what comes next. Kallus only has one inhale to wonder if Zeb knows what _exactly-_

And then they’re kissing as if they’ve done it a thousand times before, as if this were the most natural thing in the world. Easy and slow and _familiar._

If he’d gotten any sleep, Kallus figures he would be able to properly inhabit the moment, make sure to _remember this day exactly_. But right now, Kallus doesn’t really care; all he knows, in this moment, is that Zeb is laughing, and close, and tastes of snow.

For now, that’s enough.

(Later, he will sit down and pull out the datapad. Finally swipe through pages of spreadsheets and calculations to the only doc he hasn't touched in months. Type in a date, a time, a sentence.)

_/3277 LY-0BBY/ 17:00_

_A good day._

  
  



End file.
